Minnesota
by bring me a dream
Summary: A piece to coincide with 4.19, so obviously if you haven't seen that episode then there will be spoilers - Dean is reading through John’s journal, which triggers off lots of emotions and memories.


**A/N: I've been meaning to write this one for a while now, ever since I saw 4.19 and I've finally managed to get it finished. I used _John Winchester's journal by Alex Irvine_ as well as to get accurate dates and details written in John's journal. The rest is all my own creation. **

**I want to thank missanee LJ who beta'd this for me. **

**Summary: A piece to coincide with jump the shark, so obviously there will be spoilers. Dean is reading through John's journal, which triggers off lots of emotions and memories.**

**Warnings: Contains spoilers for episode 4.19 and to be on the safe side, spoilers for all the seasons including s4. **

**Disclaimer: Sadly I still don't own Dean nor Sam or any rights to SPN. *sniff***

September 29th 2004, one word, Minnesota

It balanced audaciously on the faded line of the page, as he glided his thumb along the strokes of each letter.

Dean had repeated the word, written by his Dad's hand for the sixteenth time, silently sounding out each syllable. It danced on his tongue, willing him to say the word aloud.

An infomercial softly burred from a TV at the opposite end of the motel room, its persuasive tones from a toupee wearing man, merged with his repetitive mantra. The endless loop of Minnesota playing over and over in his head, triggering stolen memories that didn't belong to him - ink blots staining his own memories of a father he never really knew. They conjured up images of a stranger, with his father's face, smiling at him from inside the imaginary world of Minnesota.

Dean could barely remember a time when he saw his father genuinely smile for the camera, unless it required impersonating an authority figure for a fake ID. The Winchester family album only consisted of two scrappy photos, bent at the edges, where they had travelled from one hunt to the next. One was of a time Dean can only imagine he was ever truly happy, before that emotion became something that only ever happened to other people and other families. A complete family, in its purest form of happiness.

In the other photo the smile is a faded stamp of the original, the curves at each end of the smile are worn and faded. Inside the curled up walls, two boys and their father sit atop their mobile home – Dad's 67 Chevy impala - looking like they were on a family hunting trip. Its dog-eared edges stick out at the edges of the journal, buried underneath 22 years of a hunter's life.

_Dad wearing a baseball cap, arm around his son's shoulder, each with symmetrical grins. A picture of** a **perfect father and son moment. _

His fingers lingered over the word as though absorbing through his fingertips, every letter andevery pause where the pen had momentarily left the page; the enigma of Dad laid bare in-between the gaps of each line. There was a deep groove in the faded yellow paper, where extra stress had been added to the finishing dash of the T. It marked a black smudge through to the page below. He briefly paused over the dent in the page; a deliberate end to an entry that supposedly once meant nothing to him. Now its meaning emptied out the entire contents of his already chaotic world and placed everything back in all the wrong places. He finally said the word out loud, "Minnesota." His voice echoing around the empty motel room; vowels bouncing off oak wooden furnishings and plaster walls. His only reply came from the toupee wearing man, telling him that if he buys the stain remover now he'll throw in a mop for free.

Minn-e-sota. The word was just a name of a place, a destination, but solitarily written by the hand of his father, it took on different identities, like betrayal, lies, deceit.

_Dad proudly holding up the catch of the day, a satisfied smile on his face. A family day out that would never be forgotten. _

His Dad's journal was full of moments that Dean didn't wish to remember; he'd folded them up into tiny packages and placed them in cardboard boxes at the darkest places of his mind. They squirm in the shadows, toying with him. One discarded package in particular still insisted on delivering itself, not wanting to be forgotten. It seared through his mind's eye like a projection of an old fuzzy movie on a pale white wall.

_A four year old boy stands outside his family home, watching it burn with his mother inside, the crimson flames lapping up the only home he'll ever know. His naked feet feel wet in the grass, where rain had fallen only hours before. He holds a tiny life in his hands, a life he'd forever be responsible for. That boy never gets older, still standing there watching his life get swept up in the whirlwind of ashes - rewind and replay, rewind and replay._

The boy fades to black and the bitter reality leaves a bile after taste in his mouth_. _He blinks, once then twice, feeling like he'd just walked out of a dark cinema after watching a three hour long movie. The room feels much brighter, as the world comes back to him. Looking down at the journal entry, he notices the five year old ink has smudged under his skin where he'd been absentmindedly stroking the word with his thumb; his sweat had caused a smeared black rainbow above the word...

'_Minnesota_'

Underneath the word that had been haunting him for the past hour, brown circles were mottled across the obscenely blank page, taking over the empty space where scribblings from an old tired man should have lived; stains of time telling him a story about an absent father who he'd never know or understand. Did anyone know the real John Winchester? Killing werewolves and burning corpses. Fishing and going to baseball games. The reflection of his father's image ever morphing ; no longer the play dough figure Dad, made by a six year old boy who placed a cape on his doughy father so he could fight the bad guys in style.

He flicked through the pages of the journal; a satisfying crunch filling the air after every page turn. He skimmed over entries where his name flashes at him, a sharp shock running through his veins at the sight of 'Dean' jumping from the page. All of the Winchester family chronicles were boldly written in the format of a how-to-guide to hunting. Birthdays and Christmases merged with extracts on the perfect way to kill a vampire.

January 24th 1986, Dean's seventh Birthday.

His dad took him shooting with the big guns for the first time. Dean held a browning shot gun vice grip in his hands; the taste of metallic staining his mouth as he swallowed hard. His breathing matched his beating heart, fast and heavy. He can feel his Dad's eyes watching him from behind; two hot spots on the back of his head. He stares at the tin cans lined up in front of him, all on the firing line for crimes Dean hadn't yet condemned them to. He held his breath and squeezed one eye shut; stroking the trigger before he pulled it back hard and fast. One, two, three, four, five....one after the other**,** each can met its demise and falls to the ground with a satisfying ping. The euphoria of that moment leaves the world in slow motion as he leaps in the air, fist punching through the atmosphere. Turning around he sees a smile on his Dad's face, giving him a look which Dean couldn't quite comprehend; a look he'd never seen from his father. He could only imagine that he was proud. He had made his father proud of him. He felt a sensation of warmth prickle through his body as he gave a big Cheshire grin to his father.

Two jagged pages sliced through the journal like knives. Dad's indiscretions omitted like they never happened. The hero father would stay sparkling and unblemished in those torn out scraps of paper, now just added specks of dust in the earth.

_Dad with another woman that's not mom. His arms around hers, a smile on both their faces, waiting for the shutter button to go click. _

Dean's inner organs clenched at the image of his father looking happy with another woman. A fake copy of the original, along with fake smiles, that smeared dirty streaks over the only memories he has of his mother. He tries to paint an image of her, of the mom he remembers as a toddler. He can only conjure up a blurry half finished picture; only her smile and her eyes are clear against the hazy mother shaped outline he's created. She has an aurora of white surrounding her, one that only a child sees when they look at their mother. It hurts too much to paint the finishing touches of her features, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the pain, but it's too late to go back now, the show has already started as he reluctantly replays the very last memory of his mother.

_She's standing over him, her smile gleaming through her hazy outline. He can feel her hair tickling his neck as she brushes her lips against his forehead, they're warm against his skin and he can still feel her kiss linger, even after she's left the room. She whispers through the shadows, "Sweet dreams Dean, remember Angels are watching over you." Her soft voice travels around the room, encircling him like a warm embrace._

Back in the motel his eyes are still shut, the phantom kiss still tingling on his forehead. What felt like the entire world sunk to the pit of his stomach as he once again felt the reminiscent taste of bile in the back of his throat. The TV sang a jingle about car insurance, reminding him that he was in a roadside motel in the middle of America; its catchy melody pushing back memories into their rightful boxes. The TV screen lit up the shadows in the room with its rhythmic flashing of colour pixels. When did it get so dark?

His eyes drooped as the weight of exhaustion hit him. He rubbed the tiredness from his eyes, creating a kaleidoscope of little black spots. He flicked on a nearby lamp sitting next to the leather bounds of the journal. They snaked around the base of it, like a predator that had caught its prey, reeling it in for the kill. The journal was open to a photo of his Dad during the war, smiling with his war buddies. That John Winchester only knew the horrors of war between humans, he never knew the existence of a war going on in the darkest of shadows, between hunters and demons.

The John Winchester in the photo had a girl waiting for him at home, a girl who he was going to ask to marry and live in a house with two sons and teach them t-ball and cheer them on at their graduations. He was a civilian, an innocent ready to be brought to the slaughter.

He slid the photo, back in its timeline of forgotten history. That man would stay a figment of Dean's imagination; a twinkle in his eye. He shuffled his feet, easing his right leg up out of the chair, the sensation of tiny pins telling him that he'd been sat starring at a past he could never change for far too long.

He could never change the way he saw his father; John Winchester's legacy was being a damn good hunter and a stubborn ass. He was never going to win any father of the year awards. He'd accepted that fact a long time ago. He'd brought himself and his brother up, whilst his father was away, not only physically but emotionally. Innocence already lost, he was reborn to protect and to serve his family; a childhood of orders and obedience. The most important order being, "watch out for Sammy," which would follow a gust of a door slamming shut and behind that door stands a lonely boy, who will never forget those four words that become his whole meaning of life.

He idly fanned the pages of the journal briefly landing on dates where he can recall flashes of his past: Acting as mediator between his younger brother and his Dad when they were having one of their heated arguments that usually ending with one of them walking out the door; telling a Sam on the verge of puberty about girls and the horrified look on his face; sitting in a grotty apartment, pretending to sleep so not to worry Sam, whilst willing the phone to ring, because it's been a week now and there's been no word from Dad. Dean spent half his life waiting for that phone to ring waiting to hear his Dad's voice again.

Dad didn't have a choice with us did he? The question hanged in the air like an unsolvable maths question. A normal life vs. a hunter's life? Normal? It was a dirty word for Dean; he couldn't quite grasp the concept of Kodak moments. He got weapons for his birthday instead of baseball mitts. He got the family curse instead of being dead. Swings and roundabouts as they say. He hated the part of him that wanted more than anything to be in those Kodak pictures with Dad grinning away without a care in the world. It made what he did have that much harder to accept. Ignorance really was bliss, even if you are worm food.

January 24th 1990, Dean's eleventh Birthday.

His Dad buys him his own gun - A seecamp LWS .32 automatic. He carries it in the back of his jeans, liking the way it looks against his back, with just a glint of black and silver flashing from beneath his shirt. It carries a sense of danger, but also makes him feel safe. His Dad sits back in a mothed balled armchair and smiles, shaking his head in that fatherly way. "Be careful you don't blow a hole in your ass, or worse blow our cover!"

He can still hear his father's voice as clear as if he was standing in the room with him. A Dad shaped presence standing over him on the aubergine shag pile. Looking in the mirror he sees Dad starring back at him; his leather jacket, the clothes, the music, the impala - all Dads. He's a walking shrine to his father, knowing that he will never be him. A child playing dress up in his father's clothes. It reminded him of a younger version of himself in 7th grade awkwardly reading out to his class that he wanted to be a hero, just like his Dad.

The image of that eleven year old boy, stung like tiny needles piercing at his heart. Popping the illusions of a boy, who already knew too much about the world, but not enough to save himself from it. Dad was a hero, above the mistakes and shitty parenting; he beamed shining neon lights that spelled out h-e-r-o. Dean used to bask in that light, awed by its blinding afterglow, over-powering his vision of the world. He still carries glimmers of that glow with him, reminding him of who he needs to be. Can I ever live up to you Dad?

John's bronze star medal glinted tiny pin pricks of light under the yellow glow of the table lamp. It peeked out from the front pocket of the journal - A medal given for heroism. Dean hovered a hand over the medal, trying to anchor the gravity of power it possessed. John Winchester an ex-marine, decorated for his acts of bravery. Ten years later, he'll lose his wife and he's back on the battle field. No amount of heroics is rewarded in that war, except the absolute adoration and devotion from a son who hangs on his every word, every move. And what does he do with that love? He takes it and moulds it into his own image of a dutiful son, an ex marines son, who would march into hell and back again if he gave the order.

The commercials coming from the TV ended, continuing the old classic black and white war film. He watched the tiny men on the screen running towards an unknown target, looking like the miniature toy soldiers he used to play with as a kid. His father would sit in the corner of the room as he played, telling him old war stories which would bleed into the imaginary world of his childish war games. His father's Eyes' were always looking down as the story begins; only a glimpse of eyeball peaked out from the shadows when a part of the story induced a shocked gasp from its audience. These stories fuelled Dean's games; retelling them with green plastic figurines and imaginary gunfire; learning the key art of stealth and tactics. The games became so real that he could feel the heat of the rifle burn against his skin. Sam must have been playing with them one day because corporal Dean was mashed out of shape. He still proudly played with his broken toy soldier. Wounded in battle, but never giving up.

January 25th 1995.

The day after Dean's sixteenth birthday he kills a werewolf. The adrenalin courses through his veins like fire, the only sound he can hear is the thumping of his heart ready to escape its bone and flesh cell. The creature's lifeless black eyes glisten in the moonlight. His Dad is shouting his name somewhere outside of his peripheral vision, but he can only hear a muffled yell. He feels like he's drowning in his own blood, as his heart beats in overdrive. His Dad comes running over, he can see his mouth opening and shutting, but no words are coming out. He claps a hand on Dean's left shoulder looking at the creature he just killed. "That's my boy!" From that moment on he embraces the life.

A cold chill wrapped around him like a constricting boa, prickling his skin, as the moon breathed its cold breath through the starry night sky. He closed the journal shut, the crispy pages knitting together in their rightful places. The journal breathed a content sigh, its leathery skin smelling like malt whisky and earth. He wound its bounds around its soft, wrinkly skin. A fragment of a person's life fastened together with newspaper clippings and paperclips. _It's never over, _whispered like a whirlwind around the journal as if it was the journal itself that had said it. John Winchester still lives on, beyond the journal, beyond death, beyond his sons, beyond his legacy.

_"You are more like him then I will ever be, I see that now...." _


End file.
